Can't You Control Your Child?

I winced as these words hit me in the back, and they weren't even directed at me (this time, anyway). I turned around to see a painstakingly put-together elderly woman storming away from an obviously tired, obviously frazzled and, given the redness of nose and the bleariness of her eyes, obviously sick young mom. She had an infant on her hip, equally red-nosed & bleary-eyed, and an active toddler who had taken a distinct interest in the bags of cotton balls. He was probably just getting over the sickness after thoughtfully passing it on to his mom & sister, and was now full of that bored, fidgety energy of a toddler who's been cooped up for a few days. My heart broke open with empathy for the mom. I could tell that she was clinging to the frayed ends of her rope, and the last thing she needed at that point was criticism. If anything, she could have used a hug and some reassurance that she would make it through.

I've been there. We've all been there, haven't we? That place where you're just trying to get through the day, or afternoon, or trip to the drug store, or sometimes even just the next 5 minutes. If you haven't, perhaps you could direct me to your blog/book/advice column/babysitting service, because I probably have something to learn from you. Can't I control my child? The simple answer to that weighted question is no, I cannot control my child. Nor do I truly have the slightest interest in doing so. Yes, I occasionally cringe at his behaviour. There was the time he threw a major tantrum on the sidewalk outside the grocery store. I felt like an animal on the plains of Africa as the cars slowly drove by, people peering at us through their tightly rolled up windows. And of course the lovely incident when he spat on my face in Starbucks. That was a doozy. Yes, I wish I didn't have to constantly remind him about the ins and outs of polite society, but he's 4 and he's going to belch really emphatically at the most inopportune times. He's going to loudly point out and ask questions about what is different about any person he sees, whether it's something they want acknowledged or not. Actually, especially if not. And then there's his tendency to try to negotiate everything, including non-negotiable safety issues, or simply on those days when I want him to just do what I ask without argument. It would certainly make my life easier if I could turn him into a docile yes-man, but I'm not sure it would best serve the needs of my son. As a parent, I don't see it as my job to "control" him, but more to help him learn how to control himself.

I would love it if he picked up some impulse control sooner rather than later, but he's like Curious George - "a good little monkey, but always very curious." As we wend our way through childhood, I want him to learn that I will always listen to his viewpoint. I want him to know that I will really only stand in the way of his desires if they will or could seriously harm him or someone else. At the core of it all, though, is my desire to instill in him the belief that everyone, including himself, deserves to be treated with kindness and respect. If I can manage that, I will consider myself a successful parent. Getting too caught up in the details, I run the risk of quashing some of the qualities in my son that I love and admire. His dive-in head first lust for life. His healthy determination; he knows what he wants, and will not be swayed from his path. He has faith in his abilities ("I can do it myself!"), and all that negotiation leads me to believe he has the knowledge and skills to stand up for himself. These qualities that can frustrate me to no end mostly because they interfere with my plans for the day, could really serve him in the future. So no, I won't "control" my son. But that rude old lady in the drug store is sure lucky that I've learned to control myself, because dammit if I didn't want to run up and give her a swift kick in the shin.

To Sleep, Perchance To Dream

We were a bit cocky in the early months. We managed to get the kiddo sleeping through the night (ie. 6 straight hours) when he was 8 weeks old. Somewhere along the way, things went horribly wrong. It all started at about 18 months when he figured out how to climb out of his crib. He became a broken jack-in-the-box, constantly popping out no matter how hard you tried to stuff him back in. Then, when we finally convinced him to stay in his own bed, the nightmares started. Dragons, dinosaurs, monsters, lions, aliens, bad guys... you name it. We have fought them off with dragon spray, anti-lion protection lotion, night lights, threats, rhymes & chants. The bastards keep coming back. We've tried letting him come to sleep in our bed in the middle of the night, but one of us invariably ends up swearing, and I invariably end up lying awake until the alarm goes off. I've tried sleeping with him in his bed, but he's a kicker (like his poppa), and a twin bed is not big enough for the two of us.

You don't realize how important sleep is until you're not getting enough of it. You feel stupider, probably because you are. Your brain function deteriorates without rest, causing you to lose concentration, memory function, and problem-solving ability. You may still be able to get stuff done, but you're slower, clumsier and have a harder time making decisions. On top of all that, you'll have a harder time regulating your emotions, so you can get depressed and/or bitchy. Really bitchy. So when all three members of my family are not sleeping well, you can imagine the sunshine and rainbows just bursting out of our house. To quote the WonderPets, "This is serious."

I remember some of the nightmares I had as a kid; I was sure those scrubbin' bubbles were going to come into my house and smother me. I can remember lying rigidly awake, scared to move, listening and analyzing every sound the house made. My poor little 4-year old does the same thing. He can't regulate his dreams yet. He still believes that the monsters in his head are real. We're working on it, but he still doesn't believe he can take control of the dream and change the story. Thankfully, my hubby received a suggestion from a friend that is showing some promise. We still have kiddo's crib mattress, which we have now placed in our room on the floor over on my side of the bed. If the little dude wakes in the night, he can come plop himself down there. It's nice to wake up only once or twice, as opposed to the 10 to 15 times we were developing into. Already I feel a tiny bit more patient, and maybe a little bit smarter. Here comes the sunshine (and rainbows).

Battle Stations

I've been wrestling with this decision for months, and now that it's been made, I feel a huge sense of relief. You see, kiddo turns 4 next week. For the past 6 months he's been asking for a sword. And/or a gun. I made the mistake of saying "Maybe for your birthday," thinking he would forget about it in 6 days, much less 6 months. However, as his birthday crept closer and he kept asking, I wondered what I had gotten myself into. I mean, we worked through the biting phase, survived the hitting phase and finally made it through the spitting phase. Do I really want to start arming him with weaponry at this point?

I did relent this summer and let him have a water gun. In part because I love a good water fight as much as the next gal, and in part because the boundaries are more easily defined. Also, they didn't have Super Soakers when I was a kid; those things are fun. They can cover some serious distance. The rules are pretty much common sense: only outside, and only when everybody has bathing suits or play clothes on. And Momma gets to put them away when we're done. No, I didn't go so far as to get a gun safe for the Super Soakers; it's just a high shelf. But I don't relish being ambushed by a stream of water running down my back while I'm chopping onions.

I used to think that you could shape your kid's interests, and that they would just play with whatever toys you gave them. Then I saw my 16-month-old son making motor noises and pushing around his shoe because I hadn't thought to buy him any toy cars yet. If he has a mind to, he can turn an empty paper towel roll into a sword. However, it's just as likely to become a telescope or a trumpet at this stage. I realize that his interest in combat toys is not going to go away just because mommy is a pacifist and wants to live in Nirvana-la-la-land. On the flip side, the day I relented to let him hold the sword in the store, what do you think he did with it? That's right. Let me tell you, just because it's a Nerf sword, doesn't mean it feels great when it cracks you in the ribs. So for this year's birthday, he'll be getting a marble maze that he can build into different configurations (Quadrilla is so cool!) And maybe, just maybe, after a few more years of work on boundaries and impulse control, I'll let him have a Nerf sword. Like, when he's 17.

Transferrable Skillz

Let me just say off the top here that I never aspired to be an at-home parent. My mother stayed home with my sister, brother and I until we were all in school. I saw how hard she worked and how little external validation she got. It's not like any of us pulled her aside at the end of the day and said "Great job parenting today, Mom. I really liked how you handled the blankie situation, and your mediation of the cookie debate was truly inspired." No, we absolutely took her for granted, assuming that because she had always taken care of our needs, that it was her singular role in life. I'm sure if you asked her today she would say that it was her most important, and most rewarding job, as would any parent. But let's be honest here - I've had some irrational, demanding bosses in my time, but none of them can hold a candle to a 2-3 year-old.

I suppose I decided to stay home with my son out of a mixture of love and arrogance. I knew in the large scheme of life, a few years would go by in a blip. I didn't think it possible that someone else could love him as much as I do, or manage his life the way that I wanted it done. I figured I would never have the chance again to spend such an intense period of time with my child, and I'd be foolish not to take it, if possible. This was the decision for me and my family. Some mothers need to work shortly after giving birth either for financial reasons, or for reasons of their own sanity, and I fully support this. The great thing about living in the 'free world' is that we have the freedom to make whatever choices best suit our families. Now that my son is almost 4 and in Preschool, I'm starting to feel the itch to return to the outside working world. Due to the difficult nature of my pregnancy (I have subtitled it "280 Days of Puking") I haven't worked in almost 5 years. Some months went faster than others. Some phases have dragged on beyond reasonable limits, but for the most part the 5 years have blown by.

From my employment counselor days, however, I know that 5 years is a long break to have in one's employment history. As much as we want to honour a parent's choice to stay home with his/her child, in reality it can be difficult for a parent to make the jump back into the paid work force. There seems to be the unspoken worry that being at home with kids can make you soft; make you lose your edge. Nothing could be farther from the truth, at least in my case. For instance, I used to have a hard time saying no. Now, I say it at least 20-30 times per day. I am better at delegating and multi-tasking. I have honed my skills in conflict resolution and crisis management. I can stare into the eye of the beast - the screaming, red-faced beast - and retain my composure. I just need to figure out how to get these skills onto my resume, and coax a good reference out of my kid (did someone say chocolate cake?).

No Worries

I read somewhere that worrying is like riding a stationary bicycle - it gives you something to do, but doesn't get you anywhere. I worried quite a bit in my youth, and I think the fear of what might happen kept me from enjoying things that were actually happening in the moment. Over the years, I've trained myself to stop worrying - or at least to worry less. However, when you have a child, that can open you up to a whole new class of worries. So when Offbeat Mama (one of my new favourite sites) linked to an NPR article by Meagen Voss entitled "5 Worries Parents Should Drop, And 5 They Shouldn't" I was curious to see what I could cross off my list.

According to the book Ms. Voss references in her article (The Paranoid Parents Guide by Christie Barnes), the top 5 worries parents have are: kidnapping, school snipers, terrorists, dangerous strangers and drugs. I'm proud to say that I don't spend a lot of time worrying about any of these things However, my son's only 4; I have plenty of time to worry about snipers and drugs later on. The top 5 things that do hurt or kill children are: car accidents, homicide by someone known to them, abuse, suicide and drowning. So fine; know your kid, know the significant people in his life, instill him with self-esteem and self-efficacy, make him wear his seatbelt, and make sure he learns how to swim. Bases covered, right? But what about my other worries? Like the fact that I'm probably doing something or will do something that will give him major issues later on and land him in years of therapy? Or the worry that he's just too damn cute for his own good, and that could land him in trouble someday? Or that someone, somewhere is eventually going to break his heart, and there's nothing I can do about it? I suppose that's the crux of it - there's nothing I can do about it. Which reminds me of another saying floating around somewhere in the dark reaches of my brain: Why worry? If you can do something about it, do it and stop worrying. If you can't do anything about it, what's the point in worrying?

I'm a parent and I'm a human. I'm going to make mistakes. The best I can do is love my kid and make the choices that feel right for us. Worrying only undermines my belief in myself, or worse - my son's belief in himself. So go ahead buddy, climb that rock wall. Ride down that huge hill on your bike. Just wear your frickin' helmet, alright?

3 Cheers for Books!

I have to say, I mark it up as a parenting victory that my son gets just as excited about going to the library as he does about going to the swimming pool. Not quite as excited as he gets about ice cream, but let's be realistic about our expectations, here. When we get through the library doors, he beelines it straight for the early literacy computer, where he spends half an hour listening to/ reading/ playing with/ laughing out loud at 'Green Eggs and Ham.' Then we spend another 20 minutes picking out books before heading to the self check-out, so that the little guy can push the buttons himself.

We're a reading family - my husband and I are book lovers of just about any genre. We have growing shelves and boxes full of books. Occasionally, one of us will grumble that it's time to clean up the bookshelf and get rid of some. When it comes down to it, though, very few books actually make it out our door to the used book store. I develop attachments to my books in a way that I don't to any of my other 'things'. Across the span of my life, books have been my escape, my solace, my companions, my teachers. As I sort through the overflowing bookshelves and hold each book in my hands, I am inundated with the memories of not just the stories and characters, but of the hours spent cradling the book in my hands. Caressing it's pages. Holding it against my heart to contemplate an especially meaningful passage. Even if I know I'll never read it again, it's hard to get rid of these books (but I'll always lend them out).

That's why I'm so excited to see my son developing and sharing that love of books. We have read to him every day of his life. Day one in the hospital, it was a pulp mystery novel that I was reading at the time. He didn't seem to object to the content, though, and simply enjoyed snuggling into my chest and listening to the sound of my voice. These days, in addition to any books we may read throughout the day, he gets to choose one book for Poppa and one book for Momma to read at bedtime. Lucky Poppa has read 'Curious George and the Big Parade' for 4 nights in a row, now. Last week for me, it was all Gruffalo. But the repetition doesn't matter for now; it's the excitement, the appreciation, the love of reading. I am, however, looking forward to him being old enough for Harry Potter. I can't wait to read that series again, through his eyes.

Cowboys and Indians and Reincarnation

The other night, kiddo said to me "Remember a long time ago when you were the kid and I was the momma?" I smiled and said "Yeah, I remember that. That was a great time." And it got me thinking - maybe it happened. Maybe the people important to us are constant from lifetime to lifetime, and we all take turns in the different roles, like kids at play. "This time you be the cop, and I'll be the robber." "This time you be the Indian, and I'll be the cowboy." This time you be the student, and I'll be the teacher." Except in each role, we're all students, and we're all teachers. I may have been alive longer than my son, and therefore have both important and unimportant things to pass on, but that doesn't mean I have nothing to learn from him, either. About him, about myself, about how the world works.

Perhaps this is true of all the people we cherish and hold close to our hearts. Maybe in each lifetime we've acted out different roles, engaged in different games, learned different lessons. Maybe this is true of all the people we react strongly to, both positively and negatively. We're all just trying to work things out. Trying to get it right this time. Trying to see and understand each other's perspectives. Maybe we seek each other out again and again, trying to complete what we started. Or find a better way. Or understand more about ourselves. Or maybe this world can be so f***ed up confusing sometimes that we need to find the people who make it a bit more sane. Make it feel safe. Like home. Or maybe it was the late-night beautifully poetic musings of an almost-4-year-old, and there is nothing else. And maybe there doesn't need to be.

To all the people in my life, I am grateful for you. I may not say it often enough. I may not open myself wide enough most days. Sometimes it's hard to see past your own sh*t, especially when you feel buried in it. But I do appreciate you. Love you. Hope you're doing well.

I think next time, I want to be a cowboy.

Namaste, Kiddo

If anyone needs a little Zen in their day, it's at-home parents. Just a few minutes of quiet in the cacophony of daily life. It was easier to do yoga when my son was an infant; I could sneak a little session in while he was napping. To be truthful, though, I always had one ear pointed toward his door on the chance he might wake up and need something. Then came the fateful day when he gave up naps altogether. It's hard to get through a sun salutation when you have a 3 year-old yelling "TUNNEL!" and crawling through every time he sees you in downward dog. Fun, but not quite restful. I spent a couple of years looking for a yoga studio that offered child care, with no success. The answer to my prayers came this past year in the form of Ahimsa Yoga & Fitness. Located just down the road in Sooke, they offer child care during a couple of classes each weekday.

The word "yoga" is roughly translated as "union"; union of body and mind. It gives you a great stretch and a great workout, but with practice, it can be so much more than that. It's meditation; a quieting of the noise inside your head. It's a way to temporarily put aside the self-perpetuating list of things to do and rejuvenate your body, mind and spirit. That way when the phone rings while I'm making lunch and my little helper spills the milk which the dog then runs through and tracks all over the house while bumping the kid into the table which then makes him scream for a band-aid and chase the dog outside somehow in the process letting a bird in the house which immediately proceeds to crap on stuff... I am un-phased. Well, I am less phased. Some people get the same benefit through other things, like going for a run. These days, you won't catch me running unless maybe there's an ice cream truck down the street.

So, bless Ahimsa for their namesake philosophy of non-harm, non-judgment, acceptance and compassion for all. Even boisterous 3 year-olds. The little guy loves it. He runs in the door, kicks off his shoes and heads straight for the playroom at the back. If I dare try to follow him, he shoos me away: "You go, Momma. Go do yoga." I'm definitely not arguing with that. Sure, it may be disconcerting for some to be lying in Savasana and hear an exuberant "E-I-E-I-Ooooo" filtering through the walls of the next room (who's kid is that??). There are plenty of classes, both at Ahimsa and elsewhere, that offer the traditional quietude. To me though, it's the sweet sound of my son having a great time and for the time being needing nothing from me, thus allowing me the freedom to restore what I need for myself. Namaste.

What Day Is It??

Ah, summer. When the days just roll together and you find yourself one day thinking "wait a minute...it's Saturday? Wasn't I supposed to write a blog entry yesterday?" And then you think "I could just skip it. I'm sure my massive readership of 5 won't even notice." Then you think "the whole reason I started this blog was to have some sort of accountability for writing regularly, so if I skip it, I'm only letting myself down." And then you think "You sound like my mother."

In case you can't tell, I'm a little unprepared and uninspired today. Can't pinpoint why; we had a great walk on the Galloping Goose Trail yesterday followed by the afternoon fun of "let's vacuum Momma's car!" Finally got that seaweed in the garden bed. Did laundry. Put away the last of the camping gear. Perhaps there's the reason for the lack of inspiration. Yesterday was what a friend likes to call a GSD day (Getting Sh*t Done). When you're an at-home parent on GSD days, most of your inspiration goes into convincing your kid(s) to help you, get out of your way, or at the very least not sabotage your efforts by jumping into the pile of freshly folded clothes. Come to think of it, even our lovely walk was occasionally tarnished by ruminations on my part of what all needed to get done. Thankfully, almost-4-year-olds are brilliant at living in the moment and bringing you along with them. So what if you have to re-fold the laundry.

Today, I pledge to get out of my own head. Forget about the never ending list of S that needs to GD. Today, I will take lessons from my son on how to have fun, follow my heart and go where the day takes me. These are the days that tend to bring boundless inspiration. These are the days that remind us why we bother with all the busy work in the first place. The first and only item on today's agenda? Don't have an agenda. In the true procrastinator's spirit, there's nothing I need to do today that can't be put off until tomorrow.

Sometimes I Just Wanna Smack That Kid

I love my son. 3 days ago, he excitedly told me loves "all my (his) friends." 2 days ago, he called me "the sweetest momma in the world." Yesterday, he spat in my face. Now, I'm a pacifist; I don't believe that hitting someone is going to get me anywhere I want to go. However, as I wiped the spit from my eyes with one hand, I could feel the other hand itching. I could practically see it slapping his almost-4-year-old face. But it didn't. I didn't. I sure as hell wanted to, but instead I picked him up, walked out of Starbucks, loaded him back in the carseat and told him that I was too angry to talk to him and that he would be out of time out when I had calmed down.

I could see how we got to that point. We had been camping. He hadn't had enough sleep for three nights in a row, and here I was asking him to stand patiently and not touch all the enticing, dazzlingly packaged things right at his eye level, all because Momma was tired too and wanted a chai latte. At that particular moment, I was asking for more than he had to give, and he was trying to exert some influence in a situation where he was not given any choice. It seems that spitting is his latest method of pushing Momma's buttons and trying to gain some power. I get it. I don't have to like it, but I get it.

Some people feel that spanking is okay. A friend argued with me that kids fear spanking, and fear breeds respect. I don't buy it. Fear breeds quiet resentment; respect breeds respect. Not to mention the fact that it looks like my son will take after his 6'5" father, and fear would only work for me for so long. I can't say that I've never hit him, though. Months ago, I had put him in time out for hitting me. If I walked away, he would grab random things and start throwing. If I got too close, he would hit me again. I grabbed his hand, and with two fingers slapped the back of his wrist as I said "No more hitting!" I could feel the hypocrisy dripping from the words as they came out of my mouth. That's not the parent that I want to be. Instead I pin him down, explaining that I won't let him hurt me or destroy my house. I figure as long as I stay relatively fit, I've got another 9 or 10 years before he's able to overpower me. Hopefully the lesson sinks in before then. Do boys use more physical aggression than girls? I don't know. All I know is that I've taken a poll of my friends who have daughters, and none of them felt the need to institute a "no head butts" rule in their house.

I don't want to give you a too negative picture of my son; he really is a sweet boy. He prides himself on being a "great helper," loves to dance and sing, calls our German Shepherd his "fluffy good girl" and loves other kids, big and small. Really, he saves all this stellar behaviour for me, because he knows, no matter what, I'm not going anywhere. I prefer it that way. I'd rather he not be super sweet to me and an ass to the rest of the world. And I know we'll grow out of this phase, just like we did the last one. I also know that when we reach the teenage years, I'll be extra glad that he's not a girl.